Black as Blood
by BookProf101
Summary: What were they to do in a world of sadness and madness? Rated T for intense emotion.


**Hi all! Welcome to my new story. It will be a place for me to dump all the sad Soul Eater chapters that I'm not allowing myself to put in **_**Your Soul Isn't Mine.**_** Love you all. Don't forget the tissues, BasicallyComplicated.**

**-BookProf101**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater. I do own, however, a LOT of books.**

He had no idea why he'd even shown up. It wasn't even a good deal, but at least he was getting paid. The piano stoically stared at him, its black and ivory keys melting together as he went cross-eyed. A can hit the back of Soul's head from the bar area. He didn't even blink. There was only one thing in the bar. Pulling out the piano bench, he sat down. Might as well play for the drunk bastards; no one would remember him in the morning. Setting his drink on the dirty piano finish, he glanced into the darkness, thankful for the stage lights. Soul's fingers moved of their accord, playing something hazy and nearly forgotten in fifty years' time being unplayed. It was their song. Maka's melody and his, twining in scales and wrapping around each other. If only she could be there.

Five minutes later, he was still playing. The patrons were beginning to take note of the song. Deep in the back, swathed in shadows, the barman looked up from lazily polishing a glass. He'd always been quick to make a laugh for someone or light their cigars, but tonight was something else. There had to be something more. The barman saw it in the piano player, old and hands slightly gnarled. The shining white hair and faded garnet eyes. That man had loved and lost. More than once. The pinned on smile dropped from his face and for once, the barman wasn't afraid to let his annoyance show; this job was killing him. Once upon a time, he'd had dreams. Dreams for the big leagues. He motioned to the waitress to bring another round of drinks to the shoddy businessmen at table five.

The night ended with one last round for all and a bang-up job on the piano. Swishing his tonic and gin in the glass, Soul stepped off the stage. At least he was getting paid for one night of pain. He dumped the alcohol down his throat, shoved his hands in his pockets, and made a familiar (yet slow) walk back to the inevitably empty apartment.

The waitress hardly failed to notice the next Saturday night when the old piano man came again. She was a little surprised but took him a tonic and gin. It seemed to be his drink of choice. With a furtive glance at the stoned and smashed businessmen at table five, the waitress trudged towards him.

"Here." A fragment of a smile tugged the corner of her mouth. "On the house."

Hips swishing, she trudged back to the bar, ignoring the raucous patrons trying to land a hit.

Soul stared at the empty seat across from him and for old times' sake ordered a beer, if only to pretend that old times were once again with him. A crowd shuffled in the door, hoping for a piano song or two. The manager sauntered towards Soul's table and took a swig of beer.

"How ya doin' son? Heard about your meister." The manager took another swig. "Listen, Soul, it's saving me a lot to have ya playin' here, so how about it becomes a weekly thing? Drinks would be free," he said, motioning to the glass in Soul's hand.

Shrugging, the former death-weapon stuck out a hand, a bitterly grim shark toothed smile poking out in the dim lighting. "Fine by me."

By their own volition, Soul's feet dragged him up to the piano bench once again. He rested his hands on the keyboard, sending a silent and rare prayer to whatever passed as a heaven.

The drunks and sober men and women in the bar looked up from their miserable drinks at the despairing noise coming from the direction of the stage. They may be lonely, but at least they could be lonely with alcohol together. The song was haunting and tugged at their stomachs, pricking tears in their eyes. A lump formed in the barman's throat. The young waitress merely noted the slump of the piano man's shoulders, the way his head swayed slightly to the music, as if leading a partner in a dance. Lighting up a cigarette, she took a deep drag. The tattered pinstripe suit hung on him, washed out and lifeless in the stage lights.

"Man, what's he doing here?" A patron whispered to another.

"He looks like that Death Scythe, the one whose partner died." The other replied.

"That accident sure was a bad one. Ruined Death City's relations with witches for weeks." They sat in silence after that, drinking, remembering, and reflecting. The piano whispered to their very souls. It was everything at once: happy, sad, angry, and full of longing. Almost as if that white-haired piano man were playing a memory. A lone cup of tonic and gin sat by his feet, nearly drained. So close to empty.

Soul was instantly transported back by the piano's hushed lullaby. This was what he'd played during those long nights when sleep was impossible, taken away by the nightmares. Except they were real every morning when the sun rose and would still be there, waiting, for when the sun set. In those days after the "accident" Soul had been empty. Numb. Unfeeling. Until the night when a large pressure nearly suffocated his soul, so heavy he couldn't breathe. Everything hurt. His scar, his heart, his soul. Pain. Suffering. Loss. And his soul would search for _that_ wavelength, the only one that could possibly take away what he felt and make it numb for a little while longer. It took ages before Soul could admit to himself that she was gone, and gone for good. Not even Kid's powers would be able to bring his beloved partner and meister back to him. Nothing could heal him. And he didn't want to. That first night drove him back to the dusty room in his soul, unused for a while. The piano, still in tune, became worst enemy and best friend. Its music took the emotion away for hours at a time until the inevitable moment when he must stop playing. Then everything would disappear, zooming off into the unknown for a soul to channel it. Somewhere it hit a wall and bounced back at Soul, bigger and sharper than even. Those nights he never slept.

And nights when he dared slip into his subconscious led down the boulevard of broken dreams. How he'd prepared for that evening, dressing carefully in his favorite suit, patting the pocket to make sure the little black box was secured in his pocket. Then the moment would happen all over again, the moment when he'd transformed but not quick enough. The moment that changed everything. The piano in his soul that night was silent except for the dripping, plinking notes of tears. For that night he'd held his meister for the last time, limp in his arms, as the light drained out of those marvelous emerald eyes.

Everyone in the bar was staring at the piano with bated breath now. Soul touched the last key, the one to end his prayer to the heavens. His finger slid off of it. There was no way he could ever press "Send." Soul stood, grabbed his now mandatory glass of tonic and gin to steady himself, and walked out the door. It was raining, a soft, weeping rain. Delicate and so, so sad. It soaked him to the soul on that long walk back. Back to what used to be home. Back to her empty room.

Nobody was surprised anymore when Soul showed up at the piano bench the next Saturday. The elderly weapon was in the same suit, same glass of tonic on the floor by his feet. Different song. Same variation on a theme. Once again, the patrons leaned in, his soul reflected in the piano's glossy black shine. The notes floated in air, performing a dance, a story that none had heard before.

In the days after what everyone at DWMA now called "the accident," Kid called Soul into his Death Room. Which was, of course, perfectly symmetrical.

"Soul." The shinigami took off his mask and rubbed his forehead. Dark circles ringed his eyes. Pools of sadness gathered in them. Soul only nodded. Using Soul Perception, Kid peered at the man standing before him, this weapon. It surprised him to a slight degree to see that Soul's soul was…smaller, dripping soul-stuff. The drops of floaty blue stuff looked like tears. Even his soul was crying on the inside. A small arrow had lodged itself there and Kid could barely make out the letters engraved there. There were letters all over his soul, mixing in sheet music and notes flying about inside. But they all repeated the same thing. And in big, neat, emerald green script, was her name: _Maka._ It was written on his heart as well in that handwriting Kid had come to know from all the written mission reports.

"Soul." The weapon focused on Kid's face. "The funeral. It's Friday." Soul nodded.

And Kid could only watch as his most trusted Death Scythe slowly collapsed inside walls of something indescribable. Something so strong it could make his soul weep tears and call her name. Kid felt the push against the world from the weapon's soul, searching for the only other soul that matched it to perfection. The only other one not on Earth, by his side, eating breakfast at their kitchen table, making dinner, watching movies…the only other one who'd ever be able to understand the nightmares. Resignedly putting his mask back on, Kid went in search of more tissues. It seemed the entire world was mourning her death.

It rained in the days leading up to it. It was traitorously sunny at the graveyard Friday. A few clouds drifted across the sky, subdued, and the wind merely brushed past those clad in black before moving on to other places, other lives, other things. The grass? It was that same beautiful shade of green. Of her eyes. And as Kid stood up to make a speech, tradition for the shinigamis in Death City at funerals, going through the motions for the ceremony, his golden yellow eyes searched for white hair and red eyes. Tsubaki was in tears the entire time, Liz looked tired and run down, Patty was uncommonly serious and subdued. Blackstar was quieter than the dead meister in her sturdy oak coffin not fifteen feet away.

Soul Eater Evans was nowhere to be found on that traitorously sunny day.

It rained again the next day and the city let out a sigh. For once, the rain was both a comfort and a sharp reminder of yesterday, last month, and yesteryear. It was a foreboding reminder of the emptier future that awaited them. And Soul Eater Evans cursed the sun as it rose, wishing it would disappear like _she _had disappeared because if she wasn't there to light up the way like she always did, then why the hell should there still be a light in his world? On that final, angry note, Soul hummed with the crescendo and slammed down the key cover. Storming out into the night, he ran back to the apartment to mourn with his ghosts alone. Alcohol couldn't fill the pit in his soul. It was a traitorously warm summer night too.

The last Saturday of the month, when Soul trudged back into the dingy bar with bad lighting, Soul could feel that the end was coming. The feeling had stalked him all week and he welcomed it. Truth be told, he was tired. Tired of constantly struggling not to cry when he passed her grave every morning on the way to DWMA. Tired of forgetting, in his old age, to bring some fresh flowers for her. Tired of being angry at the sun, who was only doing its job. Tired of not resonating because goddamn it his only meister was buried six feet under.

His thoughts flickered back to the shelves and shelves of book in the apartment. Of her things, undusted and in the same place as they were when she died. Of the ring that had never made it to her finger. Settling his thoughts into familiar grooves like puzzle pieces, Soul opened the keyboard and lightly fingered the keys. Beer-stained, grimy, and ordinary. He lowered his hands to play the last piece of his heart. The tiny fragment that insisted on keeping him alive for a little longer each day. The fragment beat like the flutters of butterfly wings as he started this piece. It held all of _her_ that Soul could remember, her painful Maka Chops, her laughter when he discovered she was ticklish, the feeling he'd always get when they resonated. Sweet and pure, the notes carried over the rafters and into the sky, soaring higher and higher, reaching for a place long ago and far away. It built and built, supported by dreams, laughter, smiles, and their love.

Higher and higher it spiraled. Down at the piano, Soul had always known that he played for Maka. That somewhere she was up there, watching him struggled to put himself together again. He'd always known that she would hear the sonatas he conjured from grief, the pieces he played to relieve his crushing emotions, if only for a little while. And he knew that she listened, night after night. Tonight, he wanted to make her smile, if only because he wasn't able to smile back.

The bar patrons were glued to the spectacle on stage, staring at the previously hidden, _nice_ smile of the piano man. And a collective gasp of shock appeared as the piano man struck the last note and fell over, a smile gracing his lips. Time slowed for the bar man as some of the more sober people had the sense to call an ambulance. The bar man could watch as the piano man smiled, murmured a few words under his breath, and breathed his last. A smoky white-blue spiral flew the path of the melody into the great beyond behind the sky.

And the next day, the sun rose as it always did. The next Friday was traitorously sunny as DWMA buried the Last Death Scythe by his meister, a black box in his suit pocket. And life moved on, seasons changing and bringing new life.

**So yeah. That's the result when I feel inspired and sad and emotional. There's a good fanfiction on Wattpad I'd like to suggest. Soul Eater: The Next Generation by daydreaminginlondon. It sounds cliché, but gave me chills. Then I started being overwhelmed by THE FEELS. **

**-BookProf101**


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